


curiosity killed the cat

by swaginabag



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (it sucks anyways anything at this point would be better), Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Drugs, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kidnapping, POV Alternates, POV Connor, POV Female Character, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Swearing, additional flourishes on canon (because why the hell not), connor is just connor, investigative journalist!reader, tags will be added as we go along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 03:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15655047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swaginabag/pseuds/swaginabag
Summary: You've always been too curious for your own good, which is why being an investigative journalist is right up your alley. Others, however, think differently.AKA: the story of how you accidentally discover a (probably nonconsequential) conspiracy with your best friend, recover from the past, and meet a gorgeous android





	curiosity killed the cat

**Author's Note:**

> hopefully, i got down the characters, ive never written for dbh so...!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **attraction**  
>  at·trac·tion  
>  _noun_  
>  the action or power of evoking interest, pleasure, or liking for someone or something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy!!

The one thing you noticed about small people was that they tended to have disproportionate body strength.

Case in point, your best friend Marcia Alvarez. Only 5’3”, and yet she easily dragged you to what she described as "the lead of a lifetime." You, on the other hand, weren't nearly as strong, and wished that Marcia parked closer so she wouldn’t have to drag you _quite_ so far.

“Why are we here again?” you asked, struggling to keep the coffee carrier from spilling (precious caffeine shouldn’t be risked so thoughtlessly). “I mean, this neighborhood doesn’t scream ‘safe’.”

This edge of the city of Detroit was broken down, each house more worn and sad than the last. A perpetual grey cloud hung over this neighborhood (though you were sure the cloud was really just smog). The street lights had just begun to flicker on, casting a sickly orange glow that put you on edge.  
  
“You know red ice, the drug?” Marcia asked, still barreling forward.

You nodded. “Yeah, it’s made up of blue blood, which is why it’s so big in Detroit because of Cyberlife and their android production plants.”

“Look at you, a regular Einstein,” Marcia joked drily. “Anyways, I was doing research on red ice, and I think I stumbled upon something _big.”_

“What do you mean by ‘big’?” you asked, suspicious. You loved Marcia like a sister and all, but she had a tendency to jump to some pretty wild conclusions.

“Something’s been bugging me,” Marcia said, gesturing for her drink. “You and I both know that red ice is made of blue blood, but you also need a _lot_ of cocaine to actually make it. Like, five kilos of coke for one gram of ice. So, actually getting the ingredients for red ice _and_ distributing it should be damn near impossible.”

Marcia spun on her heel, throwing her arms up for dramatic flair. “And yet, Detroit’s practically drowning in it! Someone _has_ to be the mastermind behind it all.”

You gave her a suspicious look, shifting out of her grasp as you handed over the coffee. “I’m guessing you have someone in mind?”

Marcia squinted in thought before downing the entirety of her triple espresso latte in one go (an impressive feat). “I have an idea who, but I have no proof. So, that’s why we’re here!

You both stopped at the end of the street, in front of an abandoned house. It was a sagging one-story, only it was the worst looking house you’d seen in your life. The yard was essentially a plot of dirt, dotted with sparse tufts of weeds. You bet that if you listened closely enough, you could hear the creaking moans of the house begging for death.

“I got a very special snitch who says there’s a very special meeting today,” Marcia said proudly. "Only had to fork over $150, and for the chance to see the head honcho of this drug cartel? It was a  _steal."_

She fished out a pair of ear pieces from her large purse, handing one to you. “You’re going to be my lookout," she explained. Digging around again, she pulled out a gun, casually handing it to you.

Your jaw dropped in shock, a million different thoughts running through your mind.

“What?” Marcia seemed confused about your reaction. “It’s for protection, just in case something happens.”

“You expect my to _shoot_ someone?” you rasped finally. “With a _gun?_ ”

“Sorry, I forgot that you had a preference for a _crossbow.”_ She rolled her eyes irritatedly, gesturing for you to take it. “And I don’t _expect_ you to _shoot_ anyone. It’s just in case someone spots us.”

You glanced back down at the gun in her hands. Eventually, you sighed and gingerly took the gun from Marcia. Hopefully, you wouldn’t have to become the awesome, sharpshooting badass she wanted you to be, as you were more likely to shoot yourself in the foot.

Marcia gave a two-fingered salute before jumping the fence to the backyard. You looked around for a good spot for cover, and spotted a few scrubby bushes across the street.

“What do you see so far?” you whispered into the ear piece, ducking behind the bushes.

“I dunno,” Marcia whispered back. “I can barely see anything through this _disgusting_ window, but I think there’s someone inside the living room.”

A beaten up sedan gradually rolled up house. Someone (a man) got out at a lethargic pace, his face obscured by a baseball cap, sunglasses, and bandana. At a glance, he looked like he’d fit in perfectly in a seedy neighborhood like this. His jeans were worn, and his work shirt barely covered a thin wife beater, but one small detail told a different story. His shoes weren’t the typical dusty workboots or the overly loved sneakers, but recently polished leather loafers.

 

Something about this man was downright fishy.

 

“We have company,” you informed Marcia, snapping a few pictures of the Super Fishy Guy and his ride.

“I know,” Marcia replied. “My guy looks nervous.”

Leisurely, Super Fishy Guy walked up to the front door, raising a carefully deliberate hand to knock. The door tentatively opened, and the he stepped inside (slowly, you noticed, making a mental note that he did everything in at the speed of a dead tortoise.)

“I didn’t have enough time to set up listening bugs,” Marcia informed you, “so I’m trying to read lips.” She huffed frustratedly. “It’d be a lot easier if I could actually _see_ anything.”

“Try not to get caught,” you warned cautiously. “I’d like to keep my body count at zero.”

Marcia harrumphed. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Where’d you even _get_ the gun?” you questioned.

“Don’t worry about it,” Marcia said. “I’ve got a permit for it.”

You frowned. “But I don’t.”

“Then don’t get caught.”

30 minutes passed, and nothing happened. You were starting to become numb from inactivity, and you shifted, trying to force feeling back into your limbs. You were also starting to get a little bored, but Marcia told you to hush so that she could focus. So, your mind wandered.

You’d lived in Florida your whole life, growing up in Miami. Journalism had always been your dream, and you had the deeply held conviction that it was your duty to report the truth, no matter how dark. Granted, your pursuit of said truth more often than not landed you in hot water, but it was worth it. You met Marcia in college, who publicly defended your first article against the professor (and privately told you that it _sucked)._

Of course, you both became fast friends.

She had a similar fire for the truth, and was a self-appointed voice for the people. Her passion inspired you to keep moving forward. After graduation, you stayed in Florida working for the Miami Herald, while Marcia moved to Michigan. 

 

Couple years and one tremendous accident later, and your fire was put out.

 

There was sudden shouting, loud enough that you could easily hear it across the street and jolt you out of your memories.

“What the _hell_ is going on over there?” you demanded, your hand automatically flying to the gun tucked in your waistband.

“Don’t know!” Marcia was excited. “My guy just _snapped!”_

There was a gunshot, a sound that had ripped through your heart as you ducked down deeper behind the bush for safety. After confirming that you didn’t have a gaping hole in your body, you poked your head above the bushes, catching just a glimpse of someone slipping back into the car and roll away easily, incriminating weapon in hand.

“Are you okay?” you whispered once the car was gone, worried Marcia had gotten too close for comfort.

“Affirmative.” Marcia’s voice had a twang of excitement, giving you immense relief that she was alive, but also worry that she was going to do something bull-headed, like-

“I’m going in,” Marcia exclaimed eagerly.

 _“Now?”_ you hissed nervously.

“Duh!” Marcia replied, cheerfully irritable. “I don’t know when you guy’ll be back, I gotta take my chances! If you’re going to be a big baby, stay outside and keep watch.”

You bit your lip, mentally weighing whether or not you wanted to join her indoors.

Pros: Drugs + homicide makes for an _AMAZING_ story.  
Cons: Do you really have to explain just how dangerous _DRUGS_ and _HOMICIDE_ is?

Your blazing curiosity nearly propelled you forward to find out what had happened, but your self-preservation firmly shoved you back. You held your hands in your head and groaned loudly, before pocketing the gun and running to join Marcia.

Marcia looked ecstatic that you’d decided to join her. “Looks like you finally grew a spine!” she crowed, tossing you a pair of latex gloves and a face mask.

“Haha, very funny,” you said drily, giving her the finger. “I couldn’t just let you hog the whole story yourself.”

You snapped on the gloves, and started investigating. The house was much more decrepit than you initially gave credit for. A few more minutes, and you feared that the roof would cave in on top of you if it wasn’t for the asbestos holding the wooden beams together. It looked like it _used_ to be a nice house a lifetime ago, with the open floorplan and rotten furniture, but disrepair and vandals thoroughly destroyed it. You contemplated opening a window to get some fresh air circulating, but decided against it, not wanting to contaminate the scene.

Marcia lifted a corner of furniture tarpaulin. “Aren’t you excited? This is your first _official_ murder!”

You gave her a look. “I’ve covered murders before.”

Marcia rolled her eyes, dropping the brittle tarp. “Those weren’t _real_ murders.”

“I think the dead bodies would disagree.”

Marcia shrugged, and turned to a dusty bureau that had a light splatter of blue blood. “I’m just saying, you don’t know real murder until you get _Detroit_ murder. It’s next level shit here.”

“Sure Marcia.”

A dead android laid in the center of the living room, a hole in his head leaking blue blood. You crouched next to the body. The android was modeled to be in his late thirties to early forties, and looked....

  
Scruffy. Not like the clean-cut models Cyberlife typically created.

  
“What kind of model do you think he is?” you asked aloud.

Marcia shrugged distractedly, opening a drawer of the desk. “Maybe housekeeping.”

You shook your head, studying the android. “No, he looks too old for housekeeping. Maybe he’s one of the new accountant models? I hear Cyberlife’s making their white-collar models look older so they can integrate better in the workplace.”

Marcia didn’t respond. Instead, she opened and closed the various drawers of the bureau, listening intently.

“What are you doing?” you asked curiously.

“Investigating,” was Marcia’s distracted reply

You rolled your eyes. “Wow, really?” you sarcastically.

Maybe Google would be a better help than Marcia. Carefully, you searched the android for any sort of identification, but it was fruitless. Even his LED was removed, and you wouldn’t have thought he was an android if you didn’t see his blood. Instead, you pulled out your phone and snapped a few photos of him.

Marcia gave a triumphant cry.

“Listen to this!” She opened a drawer, and she gestured for you to come over. She knocked on the bottom, and there was a hollow sound. “There’s a _false bottom.”_

She pried out the crumbling slat of a false bottom, revealing a new-ish, leather bound notebook, a pen neatly clipped onto its cover.

“What did I tell you,” Marcia whispered softly. “Next level shit.”

There was a creaking noise, and the both of you jumped.

“I think it’s time to call in the body,” you whispered, edging your way out the back door.

Marcia nodded, already pulling out her cellphone.

 

* * *

 

A small crowd had begun to form outside the holographic police tape. Most watched the proceedings a distressed sort of curiosity, some speculated quietly about what happened, and the rest simply shook their heads and walked back inside their homes.

An officer already asked the both of you the routine questions, and now you were waiting for the detectives. Marcia had already taken the gun back as soon as the cops were called, and you both ditched the ever-fashionable face mask and latex glove combo.

Marcia grasped your arm suddenly, pulling you in closer. "Don't turn around," she whispered fiercely.

Immediately, you turned around, trying to figure out what Marcia was so worked up for.

 _"WHAT_ did I _JUST_ say?" Marcia hissed in your ear.

"You can't just say don't turn around and then expect me _not_ to turn," you hissed back angrily, still scanning the crowd.

Marcia groaned, face-palming with her free hand (still holding a vice-like grip on your arm, and you were sure bruises were beginning to form), before turning you to face her.

"I forgot, you weren't here during the revolution,” Marcia huffed. Dropping her voice even lower, she said with a furious venom "Connor's here."

You furrowed your brows in confusion. "Is this 'Connor' a good thing or a bad thing?"

"A bad one!" Marcia yelled suddenly, shaking your arm for emphasis. "He's a horrible, no good, very bad thing!"

“What, is he a dirty cop or something?” you asked, turning back around to raise a discerning eyebrow.

Marcia turned you around again. “No, but he _did-”_

There was a light tap on your shoulder, and Marcia cut herself short to furiously glare at whoever was behind you. You turned, and for a brief moment, it was almost as if time stopped.

You were met with what was possibly, a very gorgeous face. This said gorgeous face, with the beautifully piercing eyes and stray strand of hair gracing his temple, struck you with awe. He (“Gorgeous Face,” you aptly named him) was sharply dressed and cleaned pressed, like he had just stepped off a magazine cover. A steady blue light swirled calmly on his temple, telling you he was an android (and a gorgeous one at that).

 

(You needed to find a new word other than gorgeous, but that's all your brain was giving you.)

 

“Excuse us,” Gorgeous Face said. Pointing to the taped-off area behind you, he continued “We have to get to our crime scene.”

Marcia scowled, but she moved to the side sullenly (dragging your star-struck ass along), allowing Gorgeous Face and his much older, much more disheveled partner through. Judging by the increased intensity of hatred in Marcia’s eyes, you assumed Gorgeous Face had to have been Connor.

Before Connor entered the crime scene, he paused, and turned around. “Excuse me, but are you the journalists who called in the body?”

You snapped back to reality.  Staring, as your mother had admonished you a dozen times before, was not polite. Proper journalists do _not_ brazenly stare at others, no matter how interesting (or gorgeous) they were.

You nodded curtly. “Yep.” Despite his _fantastically_ good looks, Marcia _had_ to have a reason to hate him.

“I thought so.” He gave Marcia a small smile, who was still scowling furiously. “I recognized your friend, Ms. Alvarez. She has the tendency to find her way into sticky situations.”

Marcia leveled him with a glower. “I’m sure I do.”

You elbowed her subtly, giving Connor a friendlier grin (he didn’t seem like he was too bad). “Will we be needed for further questioning?”

Connor nodded, returning your smile. “It’d be most helpful if you remained accessible.” He nodded a goodbye, and entered the house.

Marcia glared at you with the fury of the sun on a humid 110° day.

You shrugged in response. “He seemed nice enough.”

“Yeah, that’s how they always are,” Marcia grumbled, still furious. “Before you know it, he’s ‘forcibly removing you from the premises’ because apparently your story is about a ‘highly volatile drug bust’ and I’m a ‘civilian’.” She groaned loudly. “I had to write about a cat ventriloquist turned grave robber instead!”

“It seems like Connor was just doing his job,” you defended. Hip-checking her slightly, you said “I’d be _more_ pissed if he had actually let you _stay.”_

Marcia grumbled a swear, not completely disagreeing.

“Besides, the cat ventriloquy story sounds _very_ interesting.”

 

* * *

 

Connor rubbed his hands together, surveying the scene before him. A dead male android laid in the middle of the living room. He looked angry, only further exacerbated by the deep frown lines artificially etched into his skin. Connor crouched next to the body, and came to the conclusion that he was shot at point-blank. Watching the reconstructed fall, he found the imprint of size eleven dress shoes, vastly different from the size eight workboots the dead android wore.

He followed the trail the dress shoes left behind, landing on the front door. The frame was intact.

“The hell you think happened here?” Hank asked, wrinkling his nose at the dead android.

“There’s no signs of forced entry. That indicates the perpetrator was let in, meaning they were someone our body knew,” Connor started. “Based on the footprints left behind, there seemed to have been an argument, and the android was shot. The perp escaped through the front door.”

“There doesn’t seem to have been a physical fight,” Connor continued, eyeing the dead android. “It’s probable he didn’t see the gun until it was too late.”

Hank peered at the dead android intently. “He doesn’t look like any model I’ve ever seen.” Shooting a smarmy grin at Connor, he asked “You think Cyber Life's been getting my letters about making _ugly_ androids for once?”

“Possibly,” Connor replied. Swabbing up a drop of blood, he brought it to his mouth.

**ERROR MSG 313: ANALYSIS ABORTED**

Connor blinked once in surprise. He’d never received a message like this before. Perhaps the sample was contaminated (though he felt he was equipped to deal with the less-than-ideal), and tried again, thoroughly examining the sample this time for contaminants.

**ERROR MSG 313: ANALYSIS ABORTED**

This was......troubling. He had analyzed every blood type, multiple different liquids and even homemade batches of blue blood, but an analysis had never been _aborted._

 

What exactly was he dealing with here?

 

Hank looked away in disgust. “Fuckin’ gross, Connor,” he said, for what was possibly the millionth time.

“It has its uses, Lieutenant,” Connor replied, also for what was probably the millionth time. Standing, he relayed to Hank "Unfortunately, I was not able to retrieve anything of use.”

He omitted the analysis failures. There was no need to discuss that Hank about that quite yet, not until there were less eyes and ears listening in on their conversation.

“We’ll have to reactivate the android to get more information," Conor continued, straightening his tie. "However, I fear that we won’t be able to retrieve much, as his memory would’ve been damaged from the bullet wound.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.” 

Connor motioned for Hank to come in closer. Dropping his voice low, he said “Lieutenant, I have pertinent news.”

Hank groaned loudly, dragging his hands down his face slowly. “Lay it on me.”

“There’s two additional sets footprints that overlay that of the perpetrator and of the body,” Connor informed him quietly. “Both of which are female.”

“Well, our journalist friends had to have found the body somehow.” Hank raised an eyebrow, struggling to catch Connor’s drift. “What are you getting at?”

Connor drew in an impatient breath, briefly wishing that the Lieutenant could see what he could see. “They didn’t stop at the door, as their paths indicates they’ve conducted their own search before they called the DPD.”

Hank finally understood what Connor was implying. He swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “Get Alvarez and her buddy to the station,” he barked to milling officers. To Connor, he asked quietly “How much damage do you think they did?”

“A cursory scan reveals they weren’t here for long,” Connor replied. “If you give me a moment, I can retrace and assess their steps.”

Hank nodded, giving him the go ahead.

Connor focused his attention to the floor. Both sets of footprints entered from the kitchen door, but one pair had stopped at the body while the other traversed the entirety of the first floor. Retracing these steps, he landed at a desk. He narrowed his eyes, studying the bureau. A light displacement of dust told him it had been disturbed recently, and there wasn’t any dust on the wooden board strewn on the desk.

He opened the front drawer, and swore under his breath. Something had been removed recently, but Connor wasn’t sure exactly what.  
  
“Something’s missing, Lieutenant Anderson,” Connor conveyed. “I have my suspicions as to whom.”

Hank swore loudly.

 

* * *

 

At the station, Connor flipped through your record. The only noticeable blip was the request for police protection, though considering your line of work, it wasn’t unreasonable.

Hank watched you through the two-way glass. “How bad is she?”

“Clean record,” Connor answered, watching you boredly drum your fingers. “No misdemeanors or history of violent activity.”

Hank huffed. “Makes sense.” He turned to Connor. “What are planning on doin’ in there?”

“I’ll try to gather additional information on our perp, and figure out what was removed from the crime scene,” Connor stated.

“I’ll be watching from here,” Hank said. “Don’t rough her up too bad.”

Connor entered the interrogation room, giving you a gentle smile. You didn’t look too rattled by the homicide as most civilians were (and thus, would need less comforting), but research indicated strongly that a friendly persona resulted in better results.

Plus, aesthetically, you looked....nice.

His biocomponents whirred, 1.6% faster than normal. He ran a diagnostic check, but found no probable cause. A thought suggested that, because of his deviancy, he slightly malfunctioning because of you, but he dismissed it. 

“Hello,” he greeted, pulling up a chair. “I’ve never fully introduced myself. I’m Connor, and I’m guessing you’re Y/N, correct?”

You nodded.

“I only have a few questions for you today.” Connor leaned forward in what he deemed a friendly manner. “Firstly, can you describe the perpetrator?”

“I actually have photos!” you said, pulling out your cell phone and passing it to him. Briefly, your hand touched his, and his biocomponents whirred to a 2.6% faster above average for a brief moment, before settling back to 1.6%. 

“This is most helpful,” Connor remarked, studying the photos. “Do you mind if we use the photos in our investigation?”

You nodded enthusiastically. “I don’t mind at all! Happy to help.”

Connor retracted the skin on his hand, interfacing with the phone to download the photographs. Perhaps the spike in activity was a sub-routine trying to perceive sweat, to determine whether or not you were nervous (though Connor knew it wasn't because of that).

Handing back the phone (being careful to avoid contact with you), he asked “Can you describe the events that lead up to your phone call?”

“Well, Marcia was chasing a lead of a story and brought me along to help,” you started slowly, chewing the bottom of your lip in recollection.

Connor scanned you briefly, determining you were telling the truth.

“I just moved, and I guess she figured showing me the dark underbelly of Detroit was the best way to go,” you continued with a wry smile. “I tried to convince her to take me to the art museum instead, but she insisted that her next story was the _only_ masterpiece I needed.”

Truth.

Connor frowned, setting down the folder. “That’s not very safe.”

You laughed, a cheery sound. “You don’t have to tell me twice. Someone _did_ die.”

“That is true,” Connor agreed with a soft smile. “Did you ever talk to him before the incident?”

You shook your head. “Never met him before in my life. Like I said, I’ve only lived in Detroit for a few weeks, which isn’t a whole lotta time to make friends.”

Truth.

You leaned forward, intrigued. “Is he a new model? You’re from Cyberlife, don’t you know these things?”

“I haven’t been made aware of any imminent releases,” Connor answered truthfully. 

“Do you think it’s homemade then?” you asked, an excited light coming into your eyes. “Or maybe a _foreign_ model? I’ve heard that the Russians have started manufacturing androids, but I wouldn’t have guessed that they’d be coming to the states so _soon."_

Listening to you ramble about your theories and watching your eyes dance and sparkle with the prospect of an interesting story, Connor felt a sort of.....fondness.  

You stopped suddenly, a blush creeping up your cheeks. “Sorry,” you mumbled, giving Connor an embarrassed smile. “I kinda got...carried away.”

He offered a reassuring smile. “No worries. What happened during the chase of your lead?”

“We staked the house for awhile, and then the super fishy guy showed up,” you continued.

“Super fishy guy?” Connor asked, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. Could you have been referring to the criminal?

You flushed, embarrassed again. “Sorry, that’s what I’ve been calling your, uh, perp. I don’t know his name, but I didn’t want to just call him ‘that guy’.”

Connor nodded in understanding. “Ah, I see. Please continue.”

“Your perp arrived,” you said. “And then there was shouting, and a gunshot-”

“Why didn’t you call the DPD immediately?” Connor interrupted. “We’ve received reports of a gun going off in the area ten minutes before your call.”

You gave him a dry look. “I think Marcia would’ve killed me if I called the cops before she got enough material for her article.”

Connor opened his mouth to say something, but you stopped him with a raise of your hand.

“I already know what you’re gonna say,” you said, a hint of a knowing smile on your lips. Ticking things off your fingers, you recited “I could’ve contaminated the crime scene, I was technically trespassing on private property, meddling with the scene means I put myself in danger, and by meddling I also impede the jobs and safety of policemen.” You gave Connor a smirk. “Trust me, I’ve heard it all.”

Connor leaned back, studying you with interest. Initially, you didn’t look like you’d be found at potential homicides, but then again, you _were_ friends with Marcia. You had to have what Hank would crudely describe as “balls of steel”.

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

You nodded proudly. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“I have one final question,” Connor concluded. “Did you remove anything from the scene of the crime?”

You shook your head. “I didn’t take anything.”

Truth.

Connor smiled, satisfied with his interrogation. “Thank you for your time, Ms. L/N. You’re free to go.” He got up and gave you a nod of farewell, leaving the interrogation room.

“Initially, she doesn’t seem like someone who likes trouble,” Connor said to a waiting Hank, outside the room. “I’m surprised to have found out how acquainted she was with Ms. Alvarez.” He headed for the lieutenants desk, already mentally filing information from the interrogation. His biocomponents, now that he wasn't with you, started to stabilise once again, which was a brief relief.

Hank shrugged, following behind. “You never know with those reporter types. One moment she’s all nice and sweet and the next she’s fuckin’ up your investigations.”

Connor frowned in disbelief. “I doubt she’d handle her own life that thoughtlessly.”

“Yeah, remind me who had to escort Alvarez outta the last narcotics bust again?”

Connor sighed wearily, dropping himself at his desk. “I wouldn’t have had to forcibly remove her from the premises if you had drawn the line earlier in the investigation, Lieutenant.”

Hank laughed sharply, taking his own seat. “Sure Connor. I’ll just tell Marcia _fuckin’_ Alvarez to mind her own beeswax. I’m sure she’d _definitely_ listen, and not just fuck my shit up even more out of spite.”

Connor shook his head in exasperation. “There’s _protocols._ Ms. Alvarez is still a civilian, no matter how much she meddles.”

Hank held his hands up in defense. “I’m just saying, some of those journalists value their stories more than their lives. I’m speakin’ from experience.”

Connor tuned out Hank, turning to the small stack of paperwork laid carefully on his desk. An online report would have sufficed in his personal opinion, but the station required both physical and computer copies. Thus, they would receive physical and computer copies.  
  
He was midway through the stack of papers before he heard a familiar voice. His eyes flicked up momentarily out of mere curiosity, and caught a brief glance of you walking through the front doors.

“How did Y/N arrive here?” Connor asked, pausing his work.

“Squad car,” Hank answered, scribbling something.

“If I recall correctly, all of the squad cars are out on patrol tonight,” Connor noted.

Hank nodded, not looking up from his papers. “Yep.”

Connor tapped his pen against his chin thoughtfully.

“I’ll be back soon to finish those reports,” he said finally, getting up to follow you out.

 

* * *

 

It was already dark by the time you left the station. Marcia was still being interrogated, and if you knew Marcia, she'd be stuck at the station for another couple of hours. You didn’t live far from the station, that much you knew (and made sure of) before you moved to Detroit, so you figured you'd walk instead of wait. Pulling out your phone, you put in your address in, groaning loudly at the estimated 40 minute walk. A wind blew, and you shivered despite the fact that 46° probably wasn’t even cold, and you were just used to natural 60-75° weather.

 

Damn your native Floridian roots.

 

You had just resolved to the moderately freezing walk before you hear the sound of someone running.

“Y/N!” a familiar voice yelled out.

You turned, and waved at Connor (who didn’t look out of breath as he should’ve).

“Are you going home?” he inquired.

You nodded. “I had a feeling Marcia's being difficult, so I didn't really want to wait for her. But, I don’t know the area well enough to take the bus, and I don’t exactly have a car yet, so.....” You trailed off awkwardly.

“I could call a taxi,” Connor offered graciously. 

You shook your head fervently, feeling bad that you pulled him away from his work. “Thank you, but I’m fine! I don't live that far, so I can just walk.”

"You live 1.8 miles away. You'd spend approximately 40 minutes walking by yourself, which is highly dangerous," Connor stated. "I can’t in good conscience let you walk home alone, so if you’ll allow me, I can walk with you." 

You nodded. The prospect of getting mugged was (shockingly!) not very appetizing, so why would you fight the chance to walk home with a cute detective?

“Alright then.”

A stronger breeze blew then, permeating even the thick sweater you wore and sending chills down your spine. The weatherman said that it was going to get cold tonight, but you didn’t know how cold the cold would actually get, or you would’ve stolen Marcia’s mittens in advance.

Connor raised a concerned eyebrow. “Where is your coat?”

“I don’t have one,” you replied sheepishly, rubbing your arms for warmth. “I’ve never actually _needed_ one in Miami, and I forgot that I’d need one here.”

“That’s poor thinking.”

You scowled despite the stupidly worried look on his face. “I was _planning_ to get one! It just.....never happened.”

“You should plan to get one soon. The forecast indicates a deep dip in temperature in the next week,” Connor chastised gently, shrugging off his blazer. “If you caught a cold, there’d be no one to stop your friend from interfering from police work.”

You looked up at Connor, who had an amused smile on his face (seemed like he enjoyed needling Marcia).

“Trust me, there’s no stopping Marcia from a story,” you replied, laughing.

He passed the jacket to you, and you slid it on. It wasn’t too terribly warm (Connor probably didn’t make much body heat) but it warmed up rather quickly.

“Thanks,” you said, shoving your hands into the pockets of his _(his)_ jacket.

Connor stuck out both hands to you abruptly. “I can keep your hands at an optimal temperature as well.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You were shivering, indicating you’re still quite cold, and a thermal scan of your body proves my conjecture,” Connor said with an airy lift of his brows. He offered his hands to you. “I’m can adjust the heat output of my hands to keep yours warm.”

You rolled your eyes but you took his hands reluctantly, ignoring the creeping blush on your neck despite the chill in the air. You willfully forced yourself to stop blushing like a stupid schoolgirl, and hoped you could keep it together for the next hour.

The first few minutes of the walk were spent in silence. Connor didn’t offer much in conversation, and you didn’t say anything as you were worried you’d come off as a stuttering mess. Damn Connor and his stupidly good looks.

Instead, you focused on the gentle heat of his hands. They were pleasantly smooth and warm, and easily encapsulated your own. They also swung a little when you walked, creating a comforting rhythm.

Your phone chimed with Marcia’s ringtone, interrupting your thoughts. You pulled your phone out, and opened up the message.

 **swampy marsh-a**  
hey meet me at james coffeeshop tomorrow kay? i got a HELLA MAJOR PROJECT i need to show you

You rolled your eyes, and thumbed out a reply.

 **you**  
???  
care to elaborate?

 **swampy marsh-a**  
of course not  
the nsa is listening (and also i hvent finished my HM project yet)

 **you**  
careful, you’re letting your inner conspiracy theorist show  
and what would be the point of telling me you have a project if you weren’t finished with it yet?

 **swampy marsh-a**  
*eyeroll*  
whatever!!! i dnt need to explain myself to you!!!  
just meet me at nine ok?

 **you**  
sure thing *eye emojis* 

 **swampy marsh-a**  
dnt make those eyes @ me  
oh and b4 i forget you didnt tell connor abt the book right?  
bc that would fuck with my HM project

 **you**  
what do i look like? a rookie?  
it’s totally hush-hush

 **swampy marsh-a**  
;)  
i dnt want to get charged with “obstruction of justice” or whtever kinda bs theyre gonna pull out their asses  
bet connor would be real happy to write me up for that  
fuckin connor

You glanced at Connor, who was still (in case you had forgotten) beside you.

 **you**  
connor’s nice!  
a gentleman, even

 **swampy marsh-a**  
yea sure  
i bet ur all caught up in his ridiculously good looks  
“oh connors so hot oh wow connor hes so pretty i just wanna smooch him!”  
resist the pheromones y/n!

You flushed, suddenly aware that Connor was next to you, and that you were Holding His Hand. Your schoolgirl blush reared its ugly head with a fiery passion.

“Your temperature spiked,” Connor noted casually, completely oblivious. “Are you feeling alright?”

You nodded furiously, shoving the phone back in your pocket (or, Connor’s jacket pocket, the sudden convenient fact that your brain wouldn’t let you forget). “Just peachy.”

You fell back into silence again, this time cursing Marcia for forcing you to realize your attraction to Connor.

“What made you decide to move to Detroit?” Connor asked suddenly, breaking the silence. “You don’t seem very prepared for the weather.”

“Job opportunity,” you answered, trying to keep your voice level (but wincing when you realized you replied a little too fast). “There was an open position at the Detroit Free Press, the newspaper Marcia works for.”

Taking a steadying breath, you kept your gaze straight ahead. After all, you’d have plenty of time to reminisce on the past with a bottle of the cheapest tequila you could find.

“So, I took it,” you continued in what was hopefully a calmer voice. “I thought it’d be good to get out of Florida for a bit.”

“You’re exhibiting signs of distress,” Connor said, scanning you carefully. After an apprehensive pause, he asked “Am I distressing you?”

You shook your head fervently. “Of course not!” You grinned widely (too wide, maybe), showing Connor that you were _obviously_ fine, before abruptly changed the topic.

"What made you decide to stay here, of all places?" you asked, with enough curiosity to deter Connor from questions about Florida.

Connor didn’t answer right away, studying you. His LED churned yellow, as if he still wanted to ask questions.

"I already live here," he answered finally, matter-of-fact.

"I know _that,_ but why not explore the world?" you insisted. "You suddenly wake up from robo-slavery and decide you're perfectly fine staying put? That doesn't make a lot of sense."

"Perhaps not,” Connor conceded with a nod. “However, I won’t hesitate to point out that you chose to move here instead of exploring the world. What exactly is the difference between you and I?"

You huffed. "That’s _different._ I’ve never lived in Detroit, so it’d be a new experience! You, on the other hand, you’ve practically lived here your whole life.”  
  
“I’ve only been cognizant of my deviant nature for a few months, and police work doesn’t exactly provide one with ample time to sightsee,” Connor replied.

You pursed your lips, thinking.

“Then I guess we’ll have to explore together,” you declared finally.

Connor glanced down at you, smiling softly. “I suppose so.”

You had finally arrived at your apartment complex. Briefly, you wished the walk hadn’t ended quite yet, but you supposed that Connor had more important things to do than walk some random civilian home.

“This is it,” you said, clapping your hands together awkwardly. “Home sweet home.” You turned to Connor, this time with a genuine smile. "Thanks for walking me home. You really didn't have to."

Connor gave you a little bow. "It was my pleasure. I’m glad you’ve arrived securely.” He bid you farewell, and turned in the opposite direction, back to his work.

You entered your apartment, trying (and failing) to not trip over boxes in the dark. There was angry meowing (probably your pissed off, hungry cat).

“Yes, I’m aware you’re hungry,” you grumbled, locking the door. “And no, complaining even louder will not get you fed faster.”

Tossing your keys on the coffee table, you started to peel off your jacket, and froze when you were hit with the sudden realization.

You still had his jacket.

 

* * *

 

The walk to your apartment was......

Interesting.

Your hands (from what he could tell) were warm. Initially, perhaps they were warmer than they should’ve been, and Connor feared you already had a cold. However, a brief scan revealed that you were perfectly healthy, and that Connor had stressed himself for nothing.

A wind blew. Hopefully, you wouldn’t need to go on any late night excursions, considering you were woefully underprepared. So, he let you keep the jacket. You still had to get yourself a coat, and until you finally bought one, the thick cotton of his blazer should suffice.

(He did, however, make a note to acquire a new jacket, just in case you never returned his).

His thoughts drifted back to the case. The failure of his analysis was stressing, and his omission to Hank even more so. Until the department successfully analysed and activated the dead android, he was in the dark. From what he could glean from your phone conversation (before you had hastily put it away), Marcia had something planned, and that something was removed from the crime scene. Perhaps, that something could shed light on this case.

He set a 9 o’clock reminder for James’s Coffeeshop.

The walk back the headquarters a little more lonely, and to keep his mind busy, Connor mentally acquainted himself with the nearby museums. Just in case you decide to keep your word exploring Detroit together.

Just in case, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i watched like three episodes of blue bloods and eight episodes of detective conan, im pretty sure im an expert on police work and the drug industry  
> i have never lived in michigan, so to compensate the reader is from florida because i've also never lived there.  
> is the attraction between the two Obvious? do we need more blushing? side-long glances? letting go of breath we didn't know we were holding? solilioquies about how hot and cool the other is?  
> and ~ooh~ angsty mysterious backstory that definitely won't backfire on us :)

**Author's Note:**

> *cracks knuckles* prepare yourselves


End file.
